G’raha knew Ishgard was cold, but goodness was he woefully unprepared.

You find him buried in every blanket and cloak he could find, camped out by the hearth in your room at the inn, ears barely visible under the fluff. He looks like a disgruntled pile of laundry with a tail sticking out.

“I’m not meant for snow,” he groans dramatically, tail flicking in protest. “This city is made of stone and judgment and ice. I miss the sun.”

You toss him a knit hat, one you picked up from a vendor near Foundation, soft and red to match his hair. It lands squarely on his face.

There’s a beat of silence. Then a muffled, “You’re mocking me.” But when he pulls it on properly, his ears wiggle through the holes, and the smallest smile curls on his lips. He catches you staring and immediately goes defensive. “What? Do I have something on my face?”